If He Lives
by soavezefiretto
Summary: Keppler survives being shot. He isn't dead, but he doesn't want to be alive either. Keppler/Willows. Some angst, some fluff. Please review.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Keppler doesn't die. I kind of take it from there.

Rating: T for some language, to be on the safe side.

Disclaimer: I didn't invent and don't own the characters. Though I wouldn't mind owning Liev Schreiber, personally.

A/N: I absolutely loved this character, and I thought he and Catherine had great potential. This is my take on the "what could have been".

If He Lived

by

Miranda

1.

"Oh no."

Michael Keppler didn't have to slowly navigate into consciousness. He opened his eyes to the blindingly white hospital room, and he knew. All of it, in an instant. He gasped.

"Oh no."

He gingerly turned his head. Catherine was sitting there, holding a plastic soda cup and drinking through a straw. The cup was white, and the straw was green, and she wasn't looking at him, she was looking through the window, gazing dreamily into the distance, happily enjoying her drink. She was wearing a green dress. Michael thought she looked like a schoolgirl. Then he blinked, and she was gone. The chair beside his bed was empty. She'd never been there.

He supposed he should try and alert someone to the fact that he was alive, which would probably be quite a surprise, and a big annoyance, to many people. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to be alive. And if he had to be, he wanted to stay just like this for as long as possible: alone, silent, in a white impersonal room, with no thoughts, no memories, no feelings.

The door opened, and Catherine stepped into the room. She wasn't wearing a green dress, but a dark-brown striped suit, and she had no soda cup, her hands were empty. Michael blinked, but she didn't go away. She stood there for a second, staring at him, wide-eyed. Then she said:

"Hi!"

"Hi."

He didn't know he could still talk. It hurt a little in his chest.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Not long."

Yes, it definitely hurt.

"Do the doctors know?"

"Uh-uh."

He shook his head. That hurt too. A lot. A miniature fusion went off between his brows, and all kinds of pains and aches started to blossom all along his body.

"I'll do it."

No, don't go, he wanted to say. You'll disappear again, and I'll have to stay in this white room with all the pain, and all the memories, and and thoughts, and feelings. He turned his head toward the window. The door clicked shut. Suddenly, he felt her hand on his cheek. He turned to look at her, and this time it didn't hurt. At all.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

There was no one to talk to.

It wasn't the first time Catherine had felt that way. Like many in her line of work, she didn't really have a social circle outside of the lab. Whenever she had made an attempt to break out, seeking a relationship and some warmth and comfort somewhere else, it had turned into a disaster, until she decided she was too old for that. She might as well accept that the people she would be closest to, from now until the time she retired, and probably after that, were the people she worked with. They were good people, interesting and worthwhile. There was nothing shameful in seeking their company. And most of the time, she was content. It was enough.

She loved them all, of course: Nick was her little brother, too wise for his years, and eternally innocent; Greg was the crazy favorite cousin who had turned out to be a very reliable young man after all; Sara was the sister she couldn't avoid bumping heads with, but would defend unconditionally.

Grissom was Grissom: sometimes, talking to him was like talking to a being from another planet. When all she wanted was a shoulder to cry on, he offered rational arguments. When she needed enthusiasm or a kick in the butt, he gave her precaution. And when she was just about to give up on him, he approached her with such delicacy, understanding and grace that she couldn't help but surrender and love him for what he was.

And Warrick was - a fantasy. A spider-web dream she had lived in for a few months. But beyond that, he was what Grissom had sometimes called him: the rock of the team. The voice of reason, unlikely as it seemed. He kept the cool, he was the glue that held them together.

They were her family. But a woman needs something more than family. And when something happens, something unexpected, something astonishing, impossible, she needs to talk about it. And when she finds no one, she paces her dark living room at night, barefoot, careful not to wake her daughter. She sighs and heaves and wrings her hands like a victorian heroine, and tries to decide, alone, if she should steel herself against folly, or give in to what might very well be a chance for a miracle.

Or was it too late already? Hadn't the miracle already happened? Hadn't something shifted in her since she saw that face, looked into those eyes, heard that voice? Love at first sight isn't rational, it isn't scientific - a matter of neurotransmitters, certain chemistries sparking certain others. Catherine had always chosen to believe in real life instead of soul - it was safer. And it was easy, until she suddenly had this undeniable soul inside of her, like a big pink balloon, filled with longing, and hope, and yes, love, and it wouldn't go away, no matter how calmly she pointed out to herself that love didn't happen like that. A pair of blue eyes, a suit and a tie, come on!

Sometimes she could even believe it, and smile: there was no age limit for crushes, after all. But something older, and wiser, inside her, knew that what was really silly was the smile, not what had caused it. That part of her that was instinct and earth knew that these things were what they were, and had been since time was time, and probably before that. And when she felt his blood on her hands, when she saw them take him away, it was not a part of her that prayed - it was her whole being. She knelt on the floor, she clasped her hands, and she promised: if he lives - if he lives.

And he did.

God hadn't told her anything about the next part. But Catherine had heard him loud enough. Go, he'd said. Go and dare.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

They wanted to know.

"Just start at the beginning." "We need to know the whole story." "Don't leave anything out." "This is for your own good."

He refused. They were just asking for the facts, lawyers, colleagues, police, psychologists. Especially the psychologists. They thought they were doing him a favor, standing by him, closing ranks. We've got your back, but you've got to give us a break here.

A break. They didn't know what were asking for. They were asking him to give them Amy, to throw her naked into their arms. They were asking for his youth, his life, or the pitiful rest of what once had been the promise of his life. They were asking for his pain, and didn't they know that that was the only thing that kept him breathing?

Some days, it was like his room was in a train station instead of a hospital. People were going in and out, sitting or standing, leaning into him or pacing, smiling or being stern, depending on their personality and disposition. Convincing, cajoling, persuading. Tell us tell us tell us. You'll feel much better. You have to.

Michael tried to be polite. It was not like he didn't appreciate what they were trying to for him. He smiled and nodded and shook his head, and then closed his eyes and waited until they had all gone away.

"You're going to jail."

He opened his eyes. Catherine was sitting by his side, again, and by some miracle, there was no one else in the room. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans and was probably the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen.

"You know that, don't you?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"And it's probably what you want, isn't it?"

He just looked at her. Somehow, he couldn't find the courage to answer yes to that too. He couldn't say it. Not to her.

"Just tell me one thing: has there been one single moment in your life when you haven't thought about yourself?" Her eyes were stormy.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Oh yes you do. All these people, these people you lie here barely tolerating, they want to help you. Because you're in some deep shit, Michael. But you've done good things, and they - we, believe that you deserve a chance. A chance at a life. And you're just - you're spitting in their faces!"

"Catherine... you don't know..."

"Yes I know! I know! It's fucking hard. It feels like peeling your own skin off. Like selling your soul. But that' just what it feels like, it's not the truth. The truth is, it's just you, holding on to your fear and to your ghosts. Because it's what you know, it's where you think you belong. Believe me, I've been there."

Her fury had subsided as she spoke, she was low and intense as a glowing ember. The tears streamed down her face, unheeded, and he wondered if she even knew they were there.

"You have to let go."

Her look sent a jolt through Michael's body. Of what, he couldn't have said. Of longing, or of fear. It didn't matter, because he still couldn't move, couldn't speak. A minute passed, two. Catherine looked at him one last time, got up, left the room, closed the door behind her. Suddenly Michael felt as if he was falling off a very high building, falling and falling, never reaching the floor. He closed his eyes and fought to overcome the nausea. When he opened them again, she was still there.

"I thought you'd left."

"No, I haven't left." She hesitated a split second before adding: "I am not going to leave, unless you ask me to."

"Don't leave." Instinctively, he held out his hand, and in one liquid movement, she took it in both of hers. From out of nowhere, Michael felt tears well up in his eyes. To his surprise, he realized he didn't feel to inclined to fight them back.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."

"Don't say you're sorry. Just tell me one thing: do you want to live?"

He looked at her, wordless again.

"Because I do. I want you to live. I want it very much."

In the pause that followed, Michael could almost hear time expanding. It was a long pause, but it wasn't uncomfortable or tense. It was a beginning.

"Ok, get those lawyers in here before I change my mind."


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Grissom took the scene in. Somehow, he wasn't surprised.

Keppler's body was shifted to the left, so that his arm and leg were practically dangling in the air. He was wearing one of those almost pornographic hospital gowns, and there were goosebumps on his skin because there wasn't enough blanket to cover him. His torso was twisted to the right in what looked like an extremely painful crunch. But in spite of the obvious discomfort, he was sleeping, taking in long, regular breaths, his face relaxed. By his side, Catherine's breathing matched his. She was asleep too, snuggled up in his blanket, her head resting on his right shoulder.

He stepped closer. It didn't feel right to stand there and look at them while they slept - on the other hand, it seemed too cruel to wake them. God knows they both needed to rest.

Before he could decide what to do, Keppler opened his eyes and looked directly at him, and Grissom knew he hadn't been sleeping. For a long moment, they just looked at each other, the woman between them still breathing softly, oblivious of the world.

Grissom knew he had no claim to her. If there had ever been a moment for them, they had let it pass in silence. All there was left were two friends who understood each other without words, and who had seen each other grow older, if not wiser. Alright, so there was a tiny, but insistent voice in his head that wanted him to yank the other man out of his bed, smash him against a wall and growl: "If you hurt her, or make her unhappy in any way, I will find you, rip your kidneys out, and eat them for breakfast. Possibly sautéed." But that voice was clearly irrational, and he was not listening to it anyway.

Instead, he said: "Hi." He said it very low.

Keppler nodded, shifting his eyes over to Catherine, as if he needed to explain why he wasn't speaking. What next? Grissom started to pat his pockets and finally dug up a notebook and a pen. He scribbled something and then handed the note over to Keppler, who read it, looked up at Grissom and nodded again, his expression unchanged, and mouthed "thank you" without a sound. After a final nod, Grissom turned and left the room. He hadn't walked five steps when he heard Catherine's voice behind him:

"Gil, wait."


	5. Chapter 5

Warning: may contain some amount of fluff.

5.

She was dressed in jeans and a slightly rumpled white shirt and looked gorgeous. Grissom released an inner sigh of relief: there hadn't been time for her to dress since he left the room, which meant she was lying in Keppler's bed dressed. Thank God for small favors. Although he did want her to be happy, there were certain things he wasn't ready for.

"Sorry for waking you."

She blushed.

"I- it's not what you think."

Grissom smiled.

"Really? I was kind of hoping it *is* what I think."

"What?" She shook her head, trying to wake herself up. She'd always been slow in the mornings. Well, technically it was eleven in the evening.

"You look happy. That's what I think. Ergo, I hope that is actually true."

Now she was awake.

"It's just - I don't want you to get any wrong ideas..."

"I'm not a very imaginative person, Catherine. I don't 'get ideas'. And if you're referring to the possibility of you and Keppler having had a relationship while you were working for the same unit, you forget that I am the supervisor who has been dating his employee for two years. I'm an old hand."

"Right." Her face set. "Anyway, we didn't. Have a relationship. Just so you know. And yes, it's important for me that you know that."

"Ok."

"Actually, we don't have a relationship now. I mean, what you saw right now, it's not..." She put her hands in front of her, palms up, as if she expected the words she couldn't find to fall into them. "I just wanted to be close to him."

"I understand."

"Frankly, I don't think you do. How can you, if even I don't understand it?"

Grissom was beginning to get the feeling that this wasn't a conversation for a hospital corridor. Normally, he would have taken the time, he would have patiently listened to her fumble her way towards what she really meant. Maybe because seeing her lying in bed beside another man had rattled him more than he cared to admit, maybe because he suddenly felt older than usual - this time he didn't wait it out.

"You fell in love. That's all."

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.

"You know what? Yes. That's exactly what happened. I fell in love."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude..."

"No, no. You're right. It's just that I've - I've somehow managed to avoid thinking about it in those terms, so hearing it from you is a bit, erm, you know..." She smiled sheepishly and blew a stray hair out of her face. "I fell in love with him almost straight away. But I thought, Catherine, you're 46 years old, love at first sight just doesn't happen anymore. Besides, he's five years younger, and you work together, and this and that... But I just couldn't shake it, you know? It was- it *is* different. It's not a crush. It's - a certainty. Have you ever felt that, Gil? Like you absolutely know something is true, although you have no way to be certain?

She sat down on one of the plastic chair in the corridor, and looked up to Grissom, silently inviting him to join her. He sat beside her.

"Of course. Those kind of certainties, or gut feelings, are the way we perceive information that we have picked up, but haven't processed consciously. Certain gestures or subtle inflections in a voice can make us feel instantly attracted or repulsed to a person, but we don't know why that is so."

"You make everything sound so romantic, Gil."

"No one has ever accused me of being romantic."

"You got that right." Catherine sighed and gave him an affectionate look. "What I mean is, I knew I would eventually have to do something about it, about my feelings for Michael... but I had time. I knew this was a big thing, and I felt I needed to - prepare. And then, when he almost died, it hurt so bad, Gil. But he didn't die, and now I'm confused. I'm going to spend the rest of my life with a man I haven't even had a proper date with. Oh, and he's probably going to jail real soon."


	6. Chapter 6

6.

Michael was awake when she walked into the room. He smiled and she felt her knees wobble. Damn him.

"Are you all right? Do you need anything?"

"I guess I need a lawyer." He showed her the piece of paper Grissom had given him. "The date for the preliminary is set."

"I thought you already had a lawyer."

"I had one, but he liked to gamble."

"Oh."

"Yeah. He won a million bucks and moved to Califorina. I think he bought a vineyard."

Catherine stared. "You *have* to be kidding."

"Nope. He got three cherries on the Super Million Dollar Slot Machine."

"Oh. Right. Can't beat three cherries."

"That's what he said."

His face was dead serious, so was hers, until they both burst out laughing at the same time. Catherine sat down on the chair beside his bed and took his hand.

"Michael..."

"Don't worry, I'll find another lawyer. You were right, you know. People actually do want to help me. Even Grissom. He's going to collaborate with the investigation. Bone fide."

Catherine smiled. Of course Grissom didn't tell *her* about that...

"I'm not worried about the lawyer. But, to tell you the truth I'm... a little... grrahh!"

She shook her head and let out a sound that was a curious mixture between a grunt and a sigh. Michael looked at her with a quizzical expression.

"I'm sorry, but this - what are we doing here, Michael?"

"Here? In this room?"

"No! Or, yes. I don't even know. I've known you for five weeks, Michael. One of which you've spent largely unconscious or sedated. We've never been or a date, we've never even kissed. Half an hour ago, Gil walked into this room and saw me sleeping in your bed. I've spent more time here than at home with my daughter for the past few days. Doctors and nurses are talking to me about your medication and your rehabilitation, as if I was your... well..."

"Girlfriend? Fiancé? Wife?"

She looked at him. "You know what I mean."

"Yes. I know." This time it was he who took her hand, and tugged at it so that she came to sit on the edge of the bed. "Come here, I want to tell you something." He was whispering, and she leaned forward to catch his words, until suddenly his eyes were so close that the whole world seemed to be steeped in that clear blue. Their mouths met. She closed her eyes.

"I thought we should get that out of the way."


	7. Chapter 7

7.

"Oh Michael..." Catherine bowed her head and tried to keep her voice from quivering. Michael put his hand on her face. She looked up at him.

"Catherine. Listen. I... my life has been full of... bad things, bad thoughts and feelings and deeds, for a long time. You are the first good thing that has happened to me since... then, and I know I don't deserve you and, no, let me finish, please. I know this isn't how it's supposed to go. We're supposed to flirt, and act as if we're not noticing, and then one day after work go out for a drink, strictly as friends, only the one drink turns to three or four, and we end up at my place. Then we feel a bit guilty and confused, and after a few more days of beating around the bush, we go on a real date and have a great time, and that's when we decide to give it a shot, and you invite me home for dinner with your mom and Lindsey. Am I about right?

"Well, yes. That's the general idea." Though her eyes were still brimming with tears, Catherine couldn't help smiling.

"Instead, it turns out I am a guy with a dirty past who kills the son of a bitch who abused my high school girlfriend until she committed suicide, I get myself shot, and am awaiting trial for murder and an handful of assorted other charges at the end of the month."

"If you put it that way..."

"I never expected this. And I am glad. There was a time when I didn't want to be alive, but now I do. I want to thank you for that."

"I..."

"I'm sorry that you're feeling bad about this."

"Bad? You think I'm feeling bad?"

"Or - insecure, maybe."

"I am not insecure, Michael. I haven't been so sure about anything in my whole life! That's what's so scary, don't you see."

"I don't..."

"I will wait for you."

"Catherine, no! You can't..."

"Oh, yes I can, and no one is going to tell me different, not even you. This is it, Michael, don't you see? Don't you know it?. So this is what's going to happen: a week more of hospital with nurses and doctors shoving stuff into your ass, a long trial with lawyers and judges shoving stuff up your ass, and then you're probably going to spend some years in jail. I'll go visit you and bring you books and clean underwear. And when you get out, I'll be fifty years old, and just as stupidly in love with you as I am now. And then you'll decide if you want to take me out for that drink or not."

She was incensed, standing now, arms akimbo. Defying him to deny, laugh, dismiss. Deeply afraid, but standing tall.

"Catherine..."

"Yes."

"It's going to be a long time to wait for one drink."

"Yes." Praying for the ability to hold back her tears, because she knew that if she felt even one sliding down her cheek, she would break down, and they'd probably have to lock her in the closed ward.

"Do you think I'll qualify for conjugal visit?"

"Conjugal?" For a moment, she was too confused to remember she was in the process of going mad.

"Yes. In prison. You know, if you show good behavior, they allow your wife to come and visit for a night, they give you a private room, clean sheets, condoms - it's like a government sponsored roadside motel."

"Michael."

"Yes?"

"Conjugal visits are for legal spouses."

"I know." He took a deep breath. The pain in his chest made him cringe. "If you want me, I'm yours."

"I..." Catherine opened her mouth and closed it again.

"I'm a murder, a dirty cop. I am unemployed. I am going to jail. I have nothing to offer you. Will you marry me?"

Suddenly, all the tension seemed to rush out of Catherine's body, like air out of a balloon. She looked at him, and she looked at herself: her job, her child, her house, her life; the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes that time would only deepen; the sadness in her bones that was so familiar; and the joy exploding in her heart, shining over everything like a sun; she looked at all this, and forgot her tears, forgot how to doubt, how to hold back, how to deny herself, how to regret. She took a step forward, and all that was left, from that moment on, was "yes."


End file.
